


make it fashion

by katocchi



Series: alphabits [11]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Gen, Post-Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth Identity Reveal, Post-Reveal Adrien Agreste | Chat Noir/Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug, brief appearances of nathalie and adrien, established adrienette, gabriel and marinette strike up a strange friendship that nath and adrien kinda approve of, somewhat of a family fluff idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28869435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katocchi/pseuds/katocchi
Summary: Gabriel Agreste, founder of House of Agreste, is an internationally recognized fashion mogul. Between organizing fashion shows, winning over critics, and supervising his employees, he hasn't had many days off. He didn't expect to spend his free Saturday, the first in months, trying to crack his toughest critic yet. Even worse, he didn't expect the critic to be his son's girlfriend."But, Mr. Agreste—" she points that infuriating eraser at him again—"are there pockets?"
Relationships: Gabriel Agreste | Papillon | Hawk Moth & Marinette Dupain-Cheng | Ladybug
Series: alphabits [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1534889
Comments: 22
Kudos: 155
Collections: Miraculous LadyBug Stories





	make it fashion

This never happens.

No deadlines to meet? No business meetings to attend? No snotty partners to rub elbows with? He would cry happy tears if he could, but Gabriel Agreste isn't much of a crier. He's not much of an _anything related to emotions_ -er either, so when Nathalie comes in to inform him of his clear schedule, he gives a surprised look before settling into his usual stoicism.

"Very well." He waves a hand in dismissal and looks back down at his screen. "Feel free to retire for the day."

"Sir?"

"You've been working hard lately. You deserve the time off as much as I do. Adrien's schedule is currently handled, is it not?"

"It is, sir, but..."

Gabriel glances up. Brow furrowed, she shifts her tablet from one arm to the other, drumming her fingers along the top. "What is it?"

"I'd feel more comfortable staying here if you don't mind. Just in case there are any calls or mishaps."

He feels a ghost of a smile tug at his lips. "Of course you can. I can't say I didn't expect the request; you're very diligent."

"I wouldn't be your assistant if I wasn't." She nods and moves towards the door. "Please excuse me."

The door clicks shut behind her, and Gabriel refocuses on the image in front of him, trying not to immediately scrap the sketch. Despite his attempt to see the positives, the lines look forced, mere echoes of the brilliant image he conjured in his head, so he erases his markings and evaluates the template again. A small project, he'd call it, one that he's been working on during his limited free time, but his fount of inspiration has dried and he's stuck staring in frustration.

If only something _inspiring_ would burst into the room.

He can't remember the last time he felt this blocked. The public knows he stalled clothing releases in favor of developing the _Gabriel_ fragrance line following the successive successes of _Eau de Parfum, Imago,_ and _Adrien_ , but he's sure the media is crouched, ready to eat up his next collection and compare it to his past work. See if he's lost his touch. There are plenty of baseless rumors circulating about how his venture into fragrances is an attempt to cover his failing abilities. More pressure to take the world by storm with his next designs, that's all.

Sometimes, though, he wonders if the pressure is too much.

His gaze burns into the window, following the flight path of birds as they dip and soar in the sky. It's mesmerizing, the aerial loops they make with ease, not doubting that they'd recover from the plummet.

Maybe an avian-themed item. He adds experimental feathers to the dress bodice, falling under the shoulders like wings, and finds that he doesn't hate it. Absorbed as he is in adding patterns to the feathers―peacock? gradient? tortoise-shell?―he doesn't hear someone enter the room until one of his chairs screech against the floor.

His guest winces, sliding the chair into place and causing another screech. "Sorry, I forgot this was the bad one."

"No need to apologize. I should remind Nathalie to have it fixed," he says, mentally filing it away for later, though he has a feeling his filing away is the reason why the chair is still broken. "If you're looking for Adrien, he has a photoshoot until dinner time, Miss Du―Marinette."

Her name still feels foreign on his tongue, like his mouth struggles to form the sounds. It has the same amount of syllables as _Dupain-Cheng_ , but it carries the weight of familiarity and forgiveness―things he doesn't want to delve into yet. He tries his best, though; considering his son's feelings for the girl, it doesn't seem like Gabriel will stop seeing her any time soon. Bluebell eyes flicker between his as if she can see his contemplation, but she only smiles and settles into another seat. This time, a plush wingback that doesn't creak.

"I know," she says and pulls a sketchbook into her lap. "I was planning to wait in his room, but Nathalie told me you were here designing. You don't do that often anymore. Figured I'd take advantage of all the creativity in the air to draw, too."

She gestures at the supposed cloud of creativity looming over their heads, but if anything, her movement is dispersing the smoke from his brain cogs trying―and failing―to think of good ideas. When he doesn't say anything, her smile falters.

"If you'd rather be alone, I can go back." She bites her lip. "I didn't mean to mess with your concentration."

"No, I think it's good you're here," he says stiffly. Maybe she's the answer to his pleas, wandering into his office and presenting the opportunity to _play nice_ as Adrien puts it. "I'm having difficulty with these designs. It's not an official line, merely something I've been tending to in my down time. Would you like to see?"

Her face lights up with a whispered _Can I?_ and he wonders not for the first time if she'll ever fall out of love with fashion. The world will be a dimmer place the day she does.

* * *

Gabriel can't tell whether fetching the wine was a good idea, but they're almost through the bottle and there's no pressing need to stop now.

Relishing in the pleasant buzz dulling his senses, he tilts his glass back for the last sip and then shows the next ensemble: a pinstripe blazer-dress he sketched during his business trip to Milan. The satin accents streaking across the tight skirt are meant to imitate the way rays of moonlight fell through his hotel curtains, but with a glance at Marinette's expression, he worries they come off as gaudy rather than elegant.

Or maybe she's just having trouble holding her liquor.

She reaches out to refill his glass, his second refill while she works on her first, and flinches when glass clinks against crystal. She mutters a soft _Sorry_ before slumping back into her seat, sitting sideways with her legs thrown over the armrest. Gabriel, across from her on a matching settee, properly faces the bookshelf where a lowered projector screen displays his unfinished work.

"I'm ambivalent about this one," he says with a nod to the image.

Marinette stares at it, hand on chin. "There's something missing," she mutters.

He agrees; while he likes the overall form, something about it wasn't enough to be included in his last collection. Pencil scratches against paper as she copies his drawing and fidgets with the details.

Candor and efforts to help him search for what's missing are appreciated. Plenty of his interns state the obvious or feed into his ego, proving to be as useful as a sleep-deprived mollusk. In the past few months, they've had to re-evaluate their relationship: he's still her role model, a position he holds with awkward pride, but the pedestal is gone now that she also knows him as her boyfriend's father. A strange limbo of evaluating each other professionally, _posturing_ even, in one room and poring over Adrien's baby photos in another.

"How about this?" She passes over the book. From her tone, one would think she's taking their meeting seriously, but only ten minutes earlier, she laughed hard enough to snort wine through her nose. To be fair, he had designed that particular suit under the influence of too many painkillers and an unnecessarily moving documentary on elephant migration. He deleted the file once Marinette fell out of her chair giggling. If he recovers it after she leaves...well, she wouldn't know. (He's sentimental about it. Sue him.)

The changes she made aren't drastic. Raised collar, speckles emulating stars, lengthened sleeves―details that give it a standing chance on the runway while keeping its shape.

"I'll take these under consideration," he says, approving. He runs down the list she scribbled in the corner and pauses on the last dash. "Pockets?"

"It's a dress, Mr. Agreste. It needs pockets."

Come again?

"Dresses do _not_ need pockets." He pauses. "They do not need _pockets_." Another pause. " _Dresses_ do not _need_ ―"

"All your other designs had them. Why not your dresses and skirts?" Her eyebrows rise to her hairline. "Where do you suggest we keep our things then?"

"Clutches, purses, wristlets. We have collections of those, too."

She hums. "Brilliant move. Force a demand, create the supply, and then profit." He can't tell if she's being sarcastic. She turns to him. "I think your sales would skyrocket if you created a line with them."

"With what?"

"Pockets!"

Marinette throw her hands in the air, as if _he's_ the one turning the fashion world on its head, disregarding decades of Agreste tradition. He has a sudden urge to clutch at imaginary pearls as she grabs her pen and underlines the offending note three times. _Pockets!_ it now reads, angry and bold. She adds more exclamation points for good measure.

"Miss Dupain-Cheng," he says, reverting to old habits in the presence of this defiant attitude. "Even if I were to add them to this dress, how could the wearer use them without looking like a fool?"

He imagines the bulky, rectangular imprint of a phone, perhaps the protruding shape of some cylindrical makeup product, bulging from the hip-hugging design, and from Marinette's head tilt, he knows she's imagining it, too.

"Fine, maybe not _this_ one," she grumbles with a defeated huff, seconds after he starts wondering if she knows how to pick her battles, but the line between her eyebrows remains as she takes his clicker and switches the slide.

It's a ballgown with a full tulle skirt, inspired by his favorite live performance of _Swan Lake_ , and Gabriel swears he feels her protests vibrating through the air before he hears her voice.

.

And so time slips by with him explaining his designs and her telling him why pockets are necessary and achievable and him rebutting that they _aren't_ (necessary nor achievable) but quickly running out of excuses.

Gabriel Agreste, founder of _House of Agreste_ , is an internationally recognized fashion mogul. Between organizing fashion shows, winning over critics, and supervising his employees, he hasn't had many days off. He didn't expect to spend his free Saturday, the first in months, trying to crack his toughest critic yet. Even worse, he didn't expect the critic to be his son's girlfriend.

"This is one of my favorites from two years ago. It was commissioned by Miss Vergara, but an event cancellation meant she no longer needed it. I kept the design, hoping to release it one day."

"But, Mr. Agreste—" she points that infuriating eraser at him again—"are there pockets?"

He cannot believe she's having _fun_ while he's already loosened his ascot in annoyance.

"It has a handsewn crystal bodice," he snaps, as if that'll make up for it. If she hears the edge of exasperation in his voice, she doesn't show it. "The fabric is rare and specially woven. I'd have my finest people work on embroidering the hem."

"I'll take that as a no, then."

Has Marinette always been this infuriating? Not that they talked often during her middle school years, but he remembers her as a school sweetheart, a respectful child. The bakery couple's daughter, his son's classmate, the promising winner of several Agreste competitions. Somewhere between then and now, she changed into someone holding herself like...like his equal.

He feels a strange mix of pride and amusement at her audacity.

The project screen whirs, retracting into the ceiling, and Marinette's only looking slightly confused as she turns to face him, wine glass finally back in hand. Earlier, she put it down while complaining about his decisions, lest a flying hand lead to a red-stained rug. The setting sun softens one side of her face, a striking amber against porcelain, and he realizes with a start that the afternoon passed without his notice.

"Adrien should be home soon. He'll―we'll―be having dinner shortly after he arrives." In his peripheral, he catches Marinette beaming at the correction. He can't have her thinking that her impassioned speech a few weeks ago about family dinners had an effect on him, but he suspects she already knows about the changes in place. "Will you be joining us?"

"If you don't mind. I brought something for dessert earlier: mille feuille crepe cake," she says with a deliberate eyebrow raise. His favorite flavor, most likely.

"Did I hear mille feille crepe cake?"

They swivel around to see a familiar blond enter the room, poking his head through the entrance before cracking the door wider and walking in. A habit he developed after interrupting too many video conferences. Adrien crosses the floor quickly to press a kiss to Marinette's head, and Gabriel waits for them to finish their eccentric and intimate ritual of exchanging soft hellos.

He rolls his wrist, watching the remaining droplets of wine track across the crystal. Separating then pooling in a delicate dance, only to start again with another roll of his wrist. The movement catches Adrien's attention.

"Wow, Father, I was going to suggest a Bordeaux for dinner, but never mind." Adrien laughs and examines the empty bottle. "Excellent label choice. Did you two have a good time today?"

His expression is nonchalant, but his gaze flickers between Marinette and Gabriel with a shimmer of worry. _Did you play nice, Father_? his eyes seem to ask. Quite frankly, Gabriel thinks he's wondering about the wrong person.

"If you consider her antagonizing me 'a good time,' then I suppose we enjoyed ourselves," says Gabriel with the barest hint of a scoff. "Marinette, I'll be sure to contact Alexandra about these offensive views of yours. An apprenticeship under one of France's best doesn't excuse our conversation."

"Mr. Agreste, you'll be pleasantly surprised to hear that Alexandra shares my so-called offensive views. In fact, we've spent many lunch breaks trying to incorporate these into runway pieces." Her chin juts out. "It's a shame to know you'd rather give up the opportunity to be a trendsetter."

Her eyes flash with challenge, and his must have done the same because Adrien steps between them with placating hands and a nervous smile. "Why don't we head downstairs, huh? I heard we're having carbs―"

"What do you think, Adrien? Should skirts have pockets?"

Though the words came from Marinette's mouth, Gabriel finds himself mentally asking the same question. They lean forward in their seats, forcing Adrien to take a step back, and Gabriel can't help comparing his son to a cornered cat with tail down, ears flat. Marinette doesn't look angry at all, but the way she drops her chin into her palm, lips curling into the faintest smirk, is a sickly sweet threat.

"I, um, think―I mean, I haven't worn one in a long time, so I wouldn't _know_ ―not exactly the dress expert, but―"

"Please use your words, _chaton_ ," she purrs. An echo, a reversal, of their dynamic years ago.

_I'll have to be the adult_ _and save him._ Gabriel stands, fixing his ascot and rebuttoning his vest. "Nathalie must be waiting. Let's save this conversation for another day." He pretends not to notice the sigh of relief. "Carbs, you say, Adrien? I've been craving pasta lately."

* * *

The conversation _is_ saved for another day. For several days, in fact, as Marinette routinely barges into his office shortly after 4pm with arguments and materials to counter his anti-pockets campaign. Like clockwork, he hears her footsteps come down the hall minutes before his watch beeps, and after the third day in a row, he asks Nathalie to pencil in a two-hour window for what he officially calls _Marinette time_ and unofficially calls _Trying not to roll my eyes at my future daughter-in-law time_. Really, how does she have the free time between a full class schedule, a competitive apprenticeship, and saving Paris from the new Hawkmoth?

He asks her one day in the middle of her 40-slide brainwash attempt, which is admittedly very well-done and could persuade a lesser man.

She blinks. "I guess when something's important, you find the time. Or make the time. I might be sleeping three hours a day, but if it changes your mind―" Marinette flashes a smile―"it'll be worth it."

Coffee catches in his throat as his mind, the brilliant traitor, brings up Adrien despite his best efforts.

"Worth it, huh?" he mutters.

He tilts his head, sitting through the rest of her presentation, and when she calls for any questions from her audience of one, he humors her by asking, "If, a purely hypothetical _if_ , you successfully change my mind, what will be your purpose in life after? What would your day be like when you're not here bothering me?"

"Find another outdated opinion of yours and work on changing that," she answers without missing a beat.

"Wow, you have your whole life planned out. Impressive, Miss Dupain-Cheng."

"Your sarcasm, Mr. Agreste, has been duly noted and ignored," she quips, mimicking his snotty tone. "Now back to our original topic, have you recognized the error of your ways?"

He plays his part, sipping his coffee again before folding his hands in his lap. "I refuse," he says, like he always does, even though they both know he shifted his opinion to _neutral_ some time ago. "Better luck tomorrow."

And she plays her part, sighing dejectedly, clearing away her things with heavy shoulders. Then he stands and waits for her to finish so they can head down to dinner with Nathalie and Adrien, two people who have been supportive of their strange new bonding method.

"I'll get you one of these days," she promises, another part of their script.

He doesn't want to extinguish the fire in her eyes by admitting she already did.

Fire in her eyes. It matches the sun filtering through the hallway's vertical windows, bright and warm and bleeding into plums and roses. It suits her. Fire. Audacity. Perseverance. Finding new purpose in life.

He freezes in his steps, mind moving a mile a minute, synapses practically sparking as his thoughts make sense of themselves.

Rebirth.

Of course. _Of course_. That's the perfect theme for his comeback collection. A phoenix who, like Marinette, never gives up. It never dies. It is reborn again and again, pushing forward despite the odds and burning bright as a beacon of hope.

"Mr. Agreste?"

"Go on ahead." He waves in the general direction of the dining room. Are his feet already moving back towards his office? He doesn't know; he doesn't see his surroundings but mental smoke twisting and turning until in his head until designs emerge. "I have...I have to go back. There's...I need to..."

The concern drops from her posture. Of course she understands. Marinette is one of his people, after all.

"Join us when you're done!"

His fingers twitch. As soon as he passes the door, he latches onto the nearest writing instrument, captured once more by the frenzy of creation.

.

His mind calms some time after midnight. Beside him is half-eaten plate of chicken piccata cut into bite-sized pieces. Beside that is Nathalie's sleeping form, cheek resting on crossed arms, sleeves rolled to her elbows. As if she can feel his gaze heavy on her face, Nathalie stirs.

"I'm on my last one," he murmurs and brushes her hair out of her eyes. She hums, snuggling back into her elbow. He turns to his screen.

A sundress the color of bluebells in spring. Funnily enough, it doesn't fit with the theme of what he's been working on, but it seems appropriate, given the source of his inspiration. Hesitating for only a second, he adds in dotted lines for pockets. _This line_ , he thinks, _will be named Marinetta_. After the strongest girl he knows, the girl who eased sunshine into their darkened household. He spent so much time holding onto Emilie, he didn't realize the person his family needs―the person _Adrien_ needs―has been here all along.

**Author's Note:**

> adrien isn't the only agreste inspired by bluebell eyes. i like to think that marinette is a nice addition to their little family.  
> also, i will make this a safe space for me to say that gabriel's designs are kinda basic. mans is best friends with old navy and gets treated like a haute couture god. like, really? soccer balls? perfume literally named perfume in french? how did he afford that mansion? i'm not an expert on fashion myself, but i tried to make his designs a little more runway-like in this story. pls no roast.
> 
> check out my bio on FFN for my channels / more info. read and review!


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